


Hail to the God Machine! (Timestamps)

by Maldoror_Chant



Series: God Machine [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Fluff, M/M, Timestamp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2019-09-20 05:49:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17016909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maldoror_Chant/pseuds/Maldoror_Chant
Summary: A future timestamp to the fic Hail to the God Machine. Other timestamps may follow, and rating might go up.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> First of the timestamps I was planning, set some 50 years after the main fic (this being Paradise, that's not really that much time when all is said and done). This is for the Sabriel fans out there :) 
> 
> Other timestamps may follow if I get inspired, more Destiel-centric and maybe a year or so after the series.

A bell started to toll as Sam left the council room. People in the hallways stopped and looked at him with curiosity, sometimes awe. Sam, an important red folder full of papers and notes tucked under his arm, nodded at a few acquaintances and continued on his way.

At the entrance to the main building, Father Alonzo of the United Temple of the Lamb, the principal non-denominational church of P1, was praying loudly and pointedly. Father Alonzo tried, every six months like clockwork, to persuade Sam that a few days - three at most! - of ritual fasting and purification before entering the sanctum of the holies was expected by both men and the Divine. Sam ignored him successfully each time. 

Eventually he made his way towards a door barred by a heavy duty Yale lock. Sam had the key, given to him by the council with some ceremony a few minutes ago. 

The room was right beneath the God Machine, where once the Dome had resided. The old garrison of P1 had been repurposed as New Jerusalem’s administrative building and supreme court of justice and appeals. It was a busy hive of activity all around as humanity sorted itself out in the past few decades. But this room was only used twice a year exclusively by Sam, and kept locked the rest of the time. 

Inside the room was a few decorations: passages from the old Bible, the Book of the Millennium, the old and the new Talmud and other holy texts, all beautifully illustrated and framed. At the center of the room was a small rectangular table of finest oak and two chairs, facing off, upholstered with embroidered red cloth. Sam put down his folder and his portable inkwell and quills.

Right on cue, a trumpet blew and the Archangel Gabriel descended upon the Earth in a halo of light.

That was probably what Father Alonzo, the Council and everybody else portrayed in their mind. Maybe they imagined Sam falling upon his knees in worship as well. The half dozen angels left on earth were hunters, soldiers, ground pounders, and not many people actually met them anymore. So many years after their recall to Heaven, the Host and their new leader had become surrounded by an aura of mystique, of divine nostalgia. 

That aura would be punctured like a balloon if anyone other than Sam ever came into the sanctum, since inevitably the trumpet would only ring out a few short notes of annunciation before veering off track. Today, it descended into a series of squawks and wah-wah noises with a little boooom-tish! In the background that sounded like the music some young folks were coming up with in the less reputable watering houses of New Jerusalem. 

“Catchy,” said Sam dryly to the mighty archangel who had materialized, sitting on the back of his chair, feet on the embroidered seat, sucking a striped candy cane and idly scratching his chest beneath the open hussar jacket.

“Heya, kiddo, how’s it going?”

“Good.” Sam sat down and got perfunctorily started. “I have no complaints to report, but I have here a list of questions from the council to the God Machine, two petitions and one request. Also a report by Dean, the Hunters found something weird in Paradise 203, near Minsk. You?”

“All good on our end.” Gabriel lazily clicked his fingers and Sam’s folder disappeared from the table to reappear in his hand. He glanced over it, muttered a few words, then tossed it down. “I’ll take the whining to Dad for him to ignore. Dean’s thing, I’ll look into myself in the upper spheres, or get Hannah to. Lemme see, on my end, Malachai has sent a written apology to P334 about that temperature mistake he made the other day.” Gabriel rooted around in his own dog-eared folder and then vaguely went through his pockets, and finally shrugged. “Let’s just say I gave it to you, and you tell those guys in Canada that Malachai is very sorry and he understands now that snow is nice but not when nobody’s expecting it. You know what to say. Here’s the next lot who volunteered to come on down.”

The rest of the folder, consisting of three papers, was slid across the table to Sam, who caught it with his fingertips before it slipped off the table. Three angels were petitioning for permission to come down to earth to assist humanity. Gabriel had already approved them, and drawn up their requests in the format of Wanted posters, because Gabriel was like that. 

Sam leafed through them quickly. The council were always on the lookout for more angels, as they sure made transport across the globe easier, if nothing else. But because a quorum was needed, and the various factions in the council wanted different things - some wanted smite-me-now types, others preferred fluffy cherubs - angels were only very, very rarely selected. Sam, for one, did not think this was a bad thing. 

“So, how you doing, kiddo?” Gabriel asked, blinking out of existence for a fraction of a second to reappear in his seat, feet propped up on the table and chair leaning back on two legs. The question put an end to the official portion of the bi-yearly meeting between Earth and Heaven’s chosen representatives. Humans thronging the administrative center thought these meetings lasted hours because there was so much to discuss. In fact, they lasted hours because Gabriel really could talk that long, and Sam liked to listen.

Sam put down the poster for a certain Zinniel (- Wanted: the angel Zinniel, for sappy thoughts about yarn and kittens. Sentenced to: planning home improvements and other boring ideas to help humanity. Reward: 500 cookies-) “I’m doing well. Busy these past six months, but that’s a given. Cas and Dean are doing great too. They say hi. I should be seeing them again next week.”

“Give them a big sloppy kiss on my behalf.”

“I absolutely promise to do that, Gabe.”

“Isn’t it a sin to lie to an archangel?”

“Nope.”

“You sure? May I remind you that you gave me a copy of the Talmud a few years back, I can go and check.”

“You do that.” Sam reached for the tea - the real stuff, thank you very much - from the tray that had miraculously appeared on the table, and grabbed a tartlet from the adjoining plate. “How have you been doing? Still busy sorting out that mess?”

“Ugh, yes. The Machine save us from peon angels getting bright ideas. Sure, cats are okay animals, I guess, but to add them to a whole section of individual Heavens - forgetting that nine tenths of humanity throughout history considered them to be little better than vermin, or useful only outdoors to keep down the mice, and not pets. We’re still finding a few people even now banging at the door of their favorite memories and begging us to take out basket after basket of cats. I-”

“Cats? You mentioned somebody had been ‘improving’ Heavens to their detriment, you hadn’t mentioned cats last time.” Sam let his gaze linger on Zinniel’s Wanted poster.

The Wanted poster now read, ‘Wanted: the Angel Zinniel, for being too adorable for words, Sentenced to: working on home improvements for the betterment of all mankind. Reward: 100 cookies’ 

“So anyway,” Gabriel said quickly around the jam tart he’d stuffed into his mouth, “it’s mostly all fixed, and I only had to shout at a few people, but other than that, we had a supernova go off in quadrant G45- somewhere far away, but not far enough for our peace of mind, so it was all hands on deck to keep an eye out for gamma radiation. You’re welcome.”

Sam hesitated, made a mental note about Zinniel and what he’d say when he presented the angel’s petition to the council tomorrow, but then graciously let himself get distracted. “What’s a supernova?”

“Oh, they’re impressive! Let me explain-”

Sam sipped his tea and listened. They talked more after that about the angels on earth, about Cas and Dean, about family and friends, and Sam’s work and home life, however quiet the latter was. Sam managed to drop the word ‘cat’ in a few times in the following hours, just for effect. When he finally picked up the posters as he got ready to leave, Zinniel’s ‘reward’ had dropped to 50 cookies (not that the reward was ever actually requested, though Sam supposed Father Alonzo had a fund for pastries and sweets going in his church. The poor padre had too much faith and not enough humor to deal with the likes of Gabriel.)

 

\---

 

“So- so Garth looks down at Bess -” Dean was having a hard time getting the story out between suppressed chuckles, “- she’s covered in gobs of _goop_ and he looks back at us and, chirpy as anything says - he says- ‘So, anyone want to join me in the doghouse tonight? It’s comfy!’” 

He burst out laughing. Sam joined him: Dean’s imitation of Garth’s outrageously cheerful demeanour in the face of his wife getting doused with slops was hilarious. And Castiel laughed too, that deep rich chuckle that’d made its appearance these past few years to his family’s delight; though from the way his eyes, crinkled with humor, were fixated on Dean wheezing with laughter, it wasn’t the memory of Bess’s misadventure with a garbage-slinging poltergeist that he was enjoying at present...

“See what you’re missing, staying bunged up in your ivory tower, Sammy?” Dean finally said once he’d caught his breath again. 

“Yes, I cry all day at my desk when I think I’m sitting in the nice, clean center of humanity’s new world instead of dodging week-old oatmeal and banana peels in some small Paradise off the Cape.”

“Rather you than me,” Dean snorted. “Though I can’t say I’ll miss some of the stuff I’ve seen.”

“Still intent on taking your break?”

“Yeah, the team can make do without us for awhile.” Dean shrugged and leaned back in his chair. ‘The team’ was five hundred strong now, though many were on every-other-year duty, or merely on reserve. There were four other angels on the roster, so Castiel didn’t have to stay behind to insure the troops’ mobility or safety. Otherwise, it went without saying that wild horses would not have dragged Dean away for a well-deserved sabbatical after decades of hunting. 

“I won’t be bored. I’m looking forward to a couple of years of getting my hands greasy instead of bloody. Steam engines, baby! The new trains between cities are well and good - and I’m glad to get my husband back from all that taxying around he was doing - but that’s just the beginning! I went to the workshops yesterday, you wouldn’t believe the kind of things they’re thinking of!” His eyes shone with enthusiasm. 

“I’ll be glad to have you both around for awhile,” said Sam softly, though of course the Winchester code - still de rigueur even after so many years - made him add: “By which I mean, in your own house a few streets away, because if I had to lodge you two, with your propensity at making cow’s eyes at each other, I’d permanently lose my appetite.”

A minute and half a dozen insults later, the human representative of mankind to the hallowed halls of Heaven was busy getting a noogie from his older brother, while his angelic brother in law looked on, watching them both with warm eyes full of contentment.

Sam saw them off shortly afterwards. The evening had left the usual blend of emotions within him: he’d been blessed with a wonderful family, and it was a joy to see Dean and Cas build their life together day by day, year by year. But there was always that faint longing at the back of it all; Sam himself wasn’t so lucky. Maybe he’d build this happiness for himself one day, but it was going to be a good long while, he was ready to bet...

 

\---

 

Sam was late getting to the council that day; those newfangled automated machines moving people around P1 were great and all, but you tended to rely on them and then bang, they broke down on you. 

Council business was conducted crisply. Father Alonzo at the corner tried to spin out his usual prayer and blessing, but Sam edged away and then impolitically burst into a trot and rounded a corner before the church patriarch could protest. 

Sam only did this twice a year. He did not want to waste a minute.

This time, the celestial trumpet was replaced by the sound of someone blowing a rather elaborate and musical raspberry. 

“Classy,” Sam commented, straightening his tie discreetly as he sat down and hoping he wasn’t red in the face or disheveled from his hurrying. “I have- what’s this?”

“Happy birthday!” warbled Gabriel, before snatching the folder of important political requests, petitions and decisions on behalf of humanity from Sam’s fingers and tossing it aside. “Here, give me that and forget about it. Have a slice of this, you are going to _die!_ ” 

“Birthday?” Sam looked up from the large rich dark-chocolatey monstrosity that had blinked into existence to immediately dominate the meeting table. “Oh, that was last month.”

“Yeah, but our meeting didn’t coincide, so, surprise!”

“You never marked my birthday before.”

“C’mon, you think I wouldn’t celebrate your hundredth?”

“My-... is it already?” Sam stared at Gabriel, feeling the room around him rock a little. He was a hundred years old... ? He’d known he was getting close; they were in the year 51 of the New Millenium calendar after all. But since humanity had only been allowed to have calendars after The Event, and they’d started from scratch, he’d not really thought of it. But an angel with access to the celestial records would know. And Gabriel had been there at his birth, on top of that. The thought left Sam feeling a faint pang, as it usually did. As far as Gabriel was concerned, Sam's whole life span was 'yesterday’, or more accurately, ‘ten seconds ago’.

“I’m a hundred years old,” repeated Sam, staring at the cake. 

“Blow out the candles,” Gabriel urged.

“What candles?”

The top of the cake spontaneously erupted into a cataclysm of wax and fire. 

Sam hastily blew and pinched out as many candles as he could, and Gabriel quickly doused the rest with a gesture. “Hahah, a centenarian and still lighting up the room. You still got it, kiddo!”

“Hmm.” Sam licked a piece of frosting caught on his fingers, eyes on the cake. “Now that I’ve reached triple digits, maybe you can stop calling me kiddo.”

“No can do, kiddo. You’re still a baby in my eyes,” Gabriel informed him smuggly, snapping his fingers to make a slice of cake and a cup of tea appear before Sam.

“Right.” Sam looked down at the vittles without touching them. “How many more years will that last, may I know?”

That earned him a snort. “Come back when you’re a couple of million and we’ll talk, baby-cheeks.”

“Okay,” Sam said steadily. He politely tasted the cake. It was divine, as usual. Then he pushed it aside and reached for the folder. “Work first, tea party later, Gabriel, otherwise we might forget. What do you have for me? Stop pouting, if Father Alonzo could see you now, it would break his heart.”

Gabriel’s response to that would have further devastated the poor padre, but he accepted to get to work.

 

\---

 

Life flowed on over the months and years like a quiet river, taking them further and further from The Event (not The Liberation, as one would think people would call it, or The Cataclysm or The Angel Ascension or any other name the religious sheep would have opted for; in the end, the monumental change in regime and the disappearance of the angels had simply become known by the very neutral term ‘The Event’ and left at that.)

The first few decades had been chaotic, full of fear and uncertainty, and yes, some violence. But humanity had grown in the past two centuries, or possibly the past few millennia. The disappearance of the impartial third-party observers that were the angels had left them all reeling, and their institutions - justice, protection, communication, transport, all of it - in tatters, but they had rebuilt. And for many, routine had returned. Humans simply had the freedom now to make it the routine of their own choosing.

Sam walked from the tramway station to work in the eternal sunshine cut into slices by the shade of the chestnut trees, as he did every day. He lived in P1 permanently now, only visiting P342 a few times a year thanks to Castiel, to see Bobby and the rest of his family. It’d been hard at first, but he liked P1; its elegant stone buildings, its glass domes scintillating in the sun, people gathered in knots at the corner to talk about new regulations, discuss politics, religion or art, or sing, either hymns or revolutionary songs, and sometimes both. It was intense, it was intellectual, it was vibrant. It was also very busy: forty eight thousand people at last count. 

As he crossed the plaza of the Saints of All Churches, a group of children ran past him, one of them carrying an excitable puppy they were finally allowed to have. The kids stopped short to admire the brand new large-wheeled velocipede someone had put in a window display, all gilded and elegant. Humanity still had little pressure to develop, all their needs met by the Machine. Dean groused that this slowed their capacity for invention, but it also gave people the luxury of making things that were beautiful even as they were practical, and care for the cities in which they were still locked. In final, only a few, the true freedom radicals, had ventured out into the Wilds past the Garden to build their cities. Most humans preferred to live in Paradise, but that meant keeping balance. They were not the owners of this land, they were holding it in trust for the Machine, and perhaps for their own future as well.

That wisdom had not come about immediately, and was hardly universal even now. There was the occasional prophet screaming about sin, doom and damnation on a soapbox on a corner. They were building a new jail not too far from the administration building, with a new petty crimes courthouse on the far side of town. Some religious sects were getting a bit hermetical, claiming that the freedom God had given them meant they could deliberately exclude those they thought ‘unworthy’. Some of Sam’s colleagues in the Council were keeping a close eye on that development. Sam’s role was different: since he was still officially an advocate, and being brother in law to an angel, he’d found himself in charge of human-angel relations, what there was left of it. He was in direct contact with the handful of angels on earth (including the one at whose house he ate dinner every Sunday and who slept with Sam’s brother every night.) He managed their services and made sure they cooperated with humanity, so on and so forth. Of course this meant he was the one elected to meet with Gabriel every six months, when Heaven’s door would open just a crack to let through an archangel and whatever sweet treat he was bringing with him this time. The God Machine in His wisdom had decided that a minimum of cooperation between Heaven and Earth was better than a total separation after all. 

After the council’s recap of their latest debates and petitions, and Father Alonzo’s usual carrying on, Sam made his way to the sanctum once more. He had his usual red folder, tied with string, in his hands. In his pocket, and much less officially, he had this new type of sweet made from spruce gum and resin that was all the rage in the P100s, back on the American east coast. They’d been invented since The Event, he didn’t think Gabriel was familiar with them. He also had a drawing of one of Dean’s latest designs for a springmotor and a diagram of what he hoped to do with it. 

He unlocked the door, stepped through- and found, to his surprise, Gabriel already present, sitting sideways at the table, eyes fixed blankly on an excerpt of the Old Bible on the far wall, a passage about Solomon.

“Hi, Gabe.”

Gabriel looked up swiftly. His smiled lagged behind the movement by a few seconds, “Hey, Sam.”

Sam almost dropped his folder in surprise. “My actual name? No kiddo? Or sweetcheeks or boyo or-”

Gabriel seemed to catch himself and slapped his forehead with an overly wide gesture. “I left my brain upstairs today. Sorry, scout!”

Sam heaved a sigh as he pulled out his chair. Gabriel grinned at him. His eyes did not echo the sentiment. Sam looked at him carefully. 

“Is everything alright?

“Sure! Of course! Oh, I also forgot.” He made a gesture. A perfunctory trumpet made a few whah-whah noises.

“...Right.” Sam looked with concern at the folder on Gabriel’s side of the table. Whatever was in there, it was probably a doozy.

Business, however, took no more than its usual passel of minutes, and nothing ominous came out of that folder. Gabriel loved the spruce gum treat, made cracks about Dean’s new machine, made Sam laugh and smile and groan at his puns. He seemed fine now, almost too much so, perhaps, as if he was trying extra hard to be merry. But perhaps Sam was looking too hard now, and seeing more than was there. Archangels were allowed to have off days as well. But other than that, everything was fine, and there was no reason why this would ever change.

\---

Four and a half months later, everything changed.

Sam was rather used to being mobbed these days, a stark contrast to his life before The Event. When he was an advocate in the backwater that was P342, some people had avoided him as a collaborator, others had looked at him with a little bit of pity, knowing advocates were sticks in the mud who had to keep their noses clean, and wouldn’t fool around. He’d been led to understand by a few women and also men that this was a crying shame, but since Sam had declined to agree with them, or do anything about it, they’d given up and gone after easier game. 

After The Event, of course, things were different. Celibacy decrees no longer applied, and the possibility of mind scans by angels no longer loomed. Sam, however, opted to remain single and celibate. Confoundedly, instead of discouraging people, his decision seemed to cause them to flock to him. Rufus, always ready to do his friends a favor, went shopping at the rumor mill and brought back this choice piece of gossip. Popular belief had it that Sam, being a kind of advocate-in-chief and closest to Heaven, would only accept to unite with the person the Machine chose for him, like in the days of yore, and this had been interpreted far and wide as ‘decidedly romantic’. Rufus had been amused. Sam, less so, especially since this meant that, for the past decade or more, hundreds of hopeful bachelors had found means of filing through his office and workspace to shake his hand and gaze into his eyes, waiting for a rainbow. It was all rather embarrassing (unless you were Dean, in which case it was ‘hilarious’.)

This day was no different. He was stopped on his way to the lunch room by Silas, his assistant, who had taken upon himself to make sure Sam was not actually mobbed. Silas had three people in tow that he introduced quickly; two of them were in P1 ‘visiting friends’, the third was a new advocate-in-training. Sam actually paid more attention to her, since this was going to be one of his future colleagues one day-

As he shook Sarah’s hand, a faint whisper of a noise caught his attention, a metallic creak overhead. It was followed by ever increasing ting-ting-tong-ting crescendos and as he looked up, startled and with his heart suddenly lurching, light cascaded from the Machine almost right over their heads and broke into rainbows around him and the woman whose hand he was holding.

Silas, who was otherwise a very serious and disciplined man, made a rather surprising whooping sound and punched the air. He was obviously genuinely happy on behalf of his employer and friend (and perhaps he was just a bit tired of managing the stream of visitors to Sam’s doorstep.)

Sarah was looking at Sam with wide eyes and a pleased smile. She was astonishingly beautiful, dark hair and eyes, smooth skin, she was as gorgeous as a painting, almost ethereally so. Her posting here to finish her training meant that she was undoubtedly bright, and her career choice signified her belief in justice and the rule of law. In short, she was perfect.

Oh dear.

“Silas.” Sam’s voice sounded amazingly even, though the way his ears were ringing and his world was swaying, he couldn’t be absolutely sure. “Can you please cancel my appointments this afternoon?”

“Yessir!”

Naturally that backed up his workload considerably.

It was almost nine in the evening when Sam sat back down at his desk with a sigh. The grumble in his stomach reminded him he’d skipped dinner. At least he’d had lunch with Sarah, though he could not for the life of him remember what he’d eaten-

There was a wash of air behind him. Sam was so tired he didn’t even look over his shoulder. “Cas? What is it?”

“Are you nuts?”

Sam froze, elbows planted on his desk. That hadn’t been Castiel, who was normally the only angel who popped in behind Sam.

“...Are you allowed to be here?” Sam asked, carefully not turning around, as if that could somehow allow the rule being broken to pass unseen.

“Why’d you turn her down? She’s your soulmate.” Gabriel’s voice was completely devoid of any of his usual drawl.

“Yes, I suppose she is.”

“Look, remember Dean and Cassie,” Gabriel said sharply. “These things don’t necessarily click right away, but trust me, the Machine knows what He’s doing. She’s everything you wanted, Sam, she’s bright, witty, tough but sensitive - damn, _I’d_ marry her if I was down here! What are you being finicky about? You didn’t even arrange to see her again!”

“There is no decree saying I need to, not anymore,” Sam pointed out, idly tracing loops on his blotter with the newfangled steel-nibbed fountain pen that Dean had gotten him for his hundred and second birthday, almost six months ago.

Nowadays, the Machine’s unions were merely an indication of compatibility. Soulmates, yes, but it came without obligation. It’d become an overused trope (in Sam’s opinion) in all the Lantern shows. Every other love story out there featured soulmates, and the intricate romantic possibilities, as well as the tried-and-true romantic guff. They’d even made a Lantern show loosely based on Dean and Castiel’s match, featuring Sam as a wise, supportive brother and counselor. It’d been called ‘The Sacred Union of Hearts’ and had kept every promise that gushy sentimental title promised. Sam had giggled over it for months whenever he caught sight of his brother’s sour face.

Unions could be made light of, because they were no longer a prison. Humans could exert free will. Only the deeply religious leapt straight into matrimony nowadays. Normal people matched by the Machine courted first, sometimes for months or years, before they tied the knot. Some, who might already have spouses the normal human way, would turn the match down (though Sam imagined this caused stress in most marriages…) 

Sam had kindly told Sarah that he was not interested in courting at all. 

“-didn’t think you’d be a cad, Winchester! Now she’s planning to go back to her burg on the continent!”

“Yeah. I feel bad about that, but it would be very awkward if we both worked in the same administration.” 

By the sound of it, Gabriel was tugging at his hair, like he did when he was truly exasperated. “Head made of bone and sawdust! Sam-... I know I shouldn’t be telling you this, but to hell with it. You and Sarah, you are among the Chosen. This is your chance to have kids! Don’t be stupid!”

“You know the council is trying hard to change that,” said Sam in a low but mulish voice. The fountain pen’s nib bled ink into the blotter as he ground it in. 

“You can petition Dad until you’re blue in the face, you nincompoop, He’s not going to bend on that one. Soulmates, those that can have children, are also picked based on genetic compat- He makes sure kids born from those unions are healthy.”

“Humans had healthy children before He started to interfere. And deciding that only soulmates can be Chosen to have children puts unfair pressure on families,” Sam said sharply. It was a long-running argument. He could only imagine the heartbreak if he’d been in a relationship with a woman - Jess for example - and along came Sarah-the-soulmate and the only one who could bear his children. That kind of conundrum had broken up a few marriages, yes. The Lantern shows on that particular subject were almost universally dramas. 

Dramas like the one he was apparently living in right now. This was almost the plot of one of them he’d seen last year, now that he thought of it, except for the fact that one of the actors present hadn’t been given the right script, and maybe it was time to rectify that.

“Sam.” He had never heard Gabriel speak like that, anger and some strange tension in his voice. “Why are you throwing this away? That lady’s proud; you change your mind later, you might not get her back! She’s - she’s your soulmate, your match! She’s perfect! Why don’t you want her? It better not be a stupid reason!”

“I’m afraid it is a stupid reason,” Sam informed his blotter. “It’s because I don’t want perfect, see? I want imperfect. I want annoying and funny and sweet. And average good looks that become ravishing with a crooked smile.” 

There was a tense silence behind him. Then: “Sam, I don’t think- I don’t know what you mean, but I think you-”

“You don’t? Let me make it clearer. Sarah _is_ wonderful, but I don’t want wonderful. I want stupid pranks and a trumpet that sounds like a dying grouse. I want a wrinkled folder full of stupid wanted posters instead of proper files. I want that time I was feeling depressed, after those riots in P21, when I suddenly found a caramel in my inkwell. I want-”

“A long-distance twice-a-year relationship that leads nowhere?” Gabriel said, his voice soft but his words as harsh as sandpaper. “Then you’re an idiot.”

“I suppose I am,” said Sam, overjoyed despite it all, because better to be called an idiot for wanting something awkward and limited leading nowhere, than being let down gently because there was nothing there for him at all.

“You still have time to catch up with Sarah before she leaves. I strongly advise that you do, kid.” The term did not sound anywhere near as cute as usual, it made him sound like a callow youth who’d thrown a pearl to swine.

Sam opened his mouth, but the wash of air that blew his alphabetized documents onto the floor informed him he could save his breath.

He did not catch up with Sarah. He thought about writing to her, to elaborate a bit on his earlier, “I’m sorry, you seem wonderful, but I can’t.” He hadn’t said why, because if he’d told her his heart was already taken, Sarah and half of New Jerusalem would have immediately asked him why the hell he was still the most notable bachelor on the planet in that case, and that was not something he could explain. In a letter, at least, he could tell her that he loved someone else, even if they could not be together, and she’d not be able to question that immediately. Maybe she wouldn't have had earlier, either. Poor woman… she’d looked shocked, deeply so, and terribly disappointed, but she’d taken it bravely - proudly, as Gabriel had said, and as Sam would have expected her to. His soulmate...

He could almost hear Gabe calling him an idiot again. And yes, he was being an idiot, certainly, but it was his choice. He could let himself fall in love with Sarah, certainly, with little to no effort. But he chose not to. He preferred to exert his free will as a human being and stay in love with the unattainable. It was his right, sorely fought for and dearly bought, to act like an idiot, so he was damn well going to.

Next month’s meeting was going to be awkward. He suspected Gabriel would send a spokesman in his stead, giving him the silent treatment. Or else he’d be there and lead a campaign to get Sam to change his mind. Angels still took the soulmate thing very seriously. And Sam was still just a kid. And would be for quite awhile.

But that didn’t discourage him. Gabe shouldn't have given him a timeline if he’d wanted that to douse Sam’s determination. So it would take a million years until Sam might not be considered to be a baby anymore? Humans were immortal, and life was a lot safer now. People might conceivably live that long, unless ennui or fatigue of the soul got to them. But Sam, for one, did not think he’d ever get bored of seeing what mankind would get up to next, and he’d never get tired of waiting for Gabriel. So, a million years? A doddle.

A month later, Gabriel was at the table when Sam opened the door, no trumpet needed or wanted. The angel had an extra-sardonic look on his face and was sucking on a lolly in a way that made a moue of disappointment almost too easy to maintain. So it was going to be campaign of attrition, then. Sam preferred that to not seeing Gabriel at all. Though he suspected that, after official business was done, Gabe was going to get tiresome about Sarah again. Or else the archangel would have a few sarcastic words for him and then Sam would be left alone in an empty room.

“No problems on your end, other than you being a bonehead? Fine, next order of business.”

Sam hadn’t even gotten his rear fully into the chair. “I didn’t say we didn't have any prob-”

“No problems on our end, other than our Father’s wisdom being ignored, but apparently he likes it when you monkeys do that. Here.” Gabriel tossed down five posters with a bit more force than necessary. “Next batch of volunteers, try to say yes to at least a couple this time, there’s grumbling in the ranks that you guys are being way too picky.”

Sam swallowed a few words that were trying to edge their way past his teeth. Mouth firmly pressed into a thin line, he glanced over the first poster, the second-

The third made Sam stare for a long time and eventually read it out loud.

“Wanted: the Archangel Gabriel. For saving humanity’s ass, being a ray of sunshine wherever he goes, and for the crime of being hopelessly in love with a stupid ape. Sentenced to: bumming around, offering advice and still sorting out Heaven’s shit at a remote. Reward: 400,000 toffees. I don’t think the human council has that many toffees.”

“I’m sure Heaven will take an IOU.”

Sam cleared his throat, trying to keep an insane happy grin from his face. “Can you- ah, sorry, but can you change this bit? You remember I have to present these for approval to the human council, right? Can you put something- I mean, they’ll be glad to have you, they know what they owe you, but that last point is none of their business, is it?”

“And yet I stand by it,” Gabriel declared archly.

“You’re going to make my life and my job horrendously complicated, aren’t you.”

“I think that’s a given, kiddo. You’d have been much happier with Sarah, you know.”

“I highly doubt that,” Sam said, reaching across the table, snagging the edge of that hussar jacket, and pulling.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly silly timestamp that popped into mind when I was trying to think of all the ramifications of Eden's new ecology in the post-Apocalypse New Millennium. Situated a 2-3 years after the original series.

It was three in the afternoon when Dean hit the perigee of this current hunt, the shittiest part of an overall shitty day in a month already replete with excremental offerings.

For weeks, he and Cas had circled the same forty square miles of the Appalachians, getting full of burs, twigs, mud in the dells, dust in the higher reaches. It’d been tedious and tiring, but it was merely a warm-up. The main event started shortly after dawn when they finally found the well concealed entrance to their prey’s lair. When Dean kicked away the rotten logs hiding the opening to the underground chambers, the stink of rotting garbage doused in etching acid gave him a heads-up what kind of day this was going to be. 

The two hunters were jumped by half-bug half-human vermin gibbering like rabid apes and spitting digestive fluids everywhere, but that wasn’t rock bottom.

Neither was getting sprayed by a whole palette of bodily fluids and giblets as he and Cas hacked, slashed, smote, kicked and set fire to things with Dean’s torch. 

In the flickering light of burning, smoking moss and bug husks, Dean’s foot went right through what turned out to be a man-sized embryonic sac, but that was just par for the course, really. Slipping in the gooey stinking slop inside and falling into it was getting up there in terms of provocation, though. Even setting fire to the last bug did not help cool Dean’s temper.

Having his husband clean him with a touch and then insist he was spotless when Dean could damn well _feel_ goop still clinging to him and making his skin itch… that was getting really annoying.

Cas grumped a little about needless waste of time when Dean stopped to rinse off in the stream next to their camp. That sent Dean’s ire rocketing. But Dean dealt with it maturely, with the simple expedient of declaring that he still wasn’t clean and then beginning to strip. The angel stopped insisting that his grace had ‘done all the work’. He shut up and held the jacket, shirt and undershirt Dean handed him in perfect silence. By the time Dean’s pants came off, Cas finally suggested, in a voice that sounded deeper and raspier than usual, that Dean might need help scrubbing his back. It is possible, though not probable, that Dean smirked at that point (his back was turned to his husband and there was nobody else out here, so the truth of the matter would never be known.)

Dean declared that he might indeed need such assistance, but not right in the immediate; he really wanted to get clean first. Nothing like a little revenge on the one hand, and stoking anticipation on the other; the thrill of standing in the water with his back to his angel but imagining those blue eyes, unblinking and shining, travel up and down his frame as Dean took care to wash every… little… inch… He deliberately lingered, despite the mountain spring’s chill.

So, when was rock bottom reached? 

Right then and there, when Dean finally turned around, his best come-hither grin firmly in place, to find a crouching Cas facing entirely the wrong way, peering intently into a bush.

“The hell?!”

“Shhh,” Cas told him without turning around.

Dean stood there in the cold stream, the breeze taking liberties that his husband apparently had no interest in, making Dean shiver and turning his testicles into tiny prunes. The thoughts crashing through his mind were too tumultuous to fully register, though the fact that the decree guaranteeing the sanctity of unions had been repealed and as a result divorce was now back on the table might have featured…

“Dean, come look at this,” Cas murmured.

“Is it going to bite me if I don’t?” Dean snarled.

“Hm? Oh no.” Cas still hadn’t turned around.

“Will it bite you?” Dean asked, perhaps a little more hopefully.

“No, it’s a wasp, it can’t hurt me.”

So it was wasps, now, instead of bees. For the love of _Chuck!_

Dean tromped out of the creek. The water he splashed before him fell short of his husband’s duster, more the pity. He went and got a blanket and dried off and thought dark thoughts, but after five minutes, he realized that this wasn’t actually getting him anywhere because Cas was still absorbed by his wasp, and Dean was actually going to have to go over there to find out what the hey-hell was so damn interesting about a bug.

“That’s not a wasp, that’s a caterpillar,” he said a trifle unpleasantly as he stuck his nose in the bush.

“Yes, you missed the wasp,” Cas said sadly, the numbskull.

“So why are you still staring like a ninny?”

“This is also interesting. I was-...”

The caterpillar crawled slowly along the leaf. It was a huge fella, almost the size of Dean’s pinky, nice and plump, belly the color of the twigs and back the color of the foliage around him. The critter made it two inches further on his odyssey up the leaf before Dean registered that his husband had stopped talking rather abruptly.

When he looked down, Cas was still crouched, but he’d turned his head and was now staring fixedly at Dean, and the spot where the blanket he’d huddled beneath to dry off and warm up had fallen open, framing a slice of naked skin.

“So, caterpillar?” Dean asked sadistically.

“Caterpillar,” said Cas. Then he blinked and focused back on the bush. “Ah, right.” He reached out with one finger of the hand that could wipe out a town, delicate as he bent the leaf, making the caterpillar's uphill climb a little easier. “The wasp laid its eggs on it.”

“It-...” Dean gaped in horror. The caterpillar, now that he was actually looking at it, had raised white specks along its flank that Dean was now ready to bet weren’t decorative, unless you were into particularly sadistic body art. “But-but-...”

“Oh, don’t worry, the cow feeds with the bear,” Cas assured him, tilting the leaf slightly.

Maybe the bug-men's bite was toxic to celestial beings. 

“What the dickens are you talking about?”

“Revelations, Dean. Remember? The cow will feed with the bear, the lion will eat straw…? Since the apocalypse, the wasp no longer lays his eggs _in_ the caterpillar. That would go against the spirit of Eden. Especially the way the larvae would eat their way out of the host without killing it and leave one of their number behind to force the caterpillar to starve itself while guarding the brood-”

While Cas explained how utterly vile the Old World had been to caterpillars, the green and brown fella they were discussing stopped at the leaf’s apex, reared up on some of its legs and waved its upper body tiredly at Dean to inform the latter that his day hadn’t been all that bad, now, had it? 

“But-... but then-... what happens now?”

“As I understand it, nowadays the caterpillar will have to work to feed the wasp’s young as well as himself- the larvae are vegetarian, of course, same as you and all the other animals, but they’re helpless. He’ll be their guardian until they’re born, and they will then leave him unharmed. Or so I believe, according to what information I have retrieved from the Machine, however I have never seen the process.” Cas was now sitting down on his heels with the air of one who was going to watch this caterpillar for the next six weeks. 

“...Did the wasp ask the caterpillar’s opinion on any of this?”

“Um, no, that’s not-”

“Then it’s still a shitty deal.”

“The wasp is allowed to thrive too,” Cas protested, albeit meekly. “This is the way it cares for its young.”

Dean peered further into the bush, trying to get a good view of the caterpillar and its burden, see if the bug felt like he did after a bad day.

“I wonder if there’s a scorpion wasp around,” Cas mused.

Dean fled the bush, blanket wrapped around him like a high-class dame's skirts after spying a mouse. “What in blue blazing hell is a scorpion wasp?! And how the _fuck_ did your father think that putting two really nasty things together was a good idea?!”

“The scorpion wasp is also a parasite, specifically for another wasp’s eggs.” Cas was talking like he was barely keeping his train of thought going. He was still sitting down, but he’d twisted around and his eyes were fixed on Dean’s bare legs. “It lays its eggs in another wasp’s pupa. You see, I was curious… I was wondering if that mechanism was still active, as long as it spared at least part of the other eggs-... I can look this up in the Machine later.” Cas got to his feet, went over to Dean and put his arms around the bundle of blanket and human husband. “You look cold,” he said, his voice going deep and gravelly.

“Yeah, so I’m getting dressed and then you’re gonna fly us out of this hell pit and back to civilisation!” Dean batted away the hand that was worming its way under the blanket and took off towards their tent at high speed.

The day could only look up from there, right? As long as you were not a caterpillar. 

Dean got flown back to Lawrence, relaxed in a hot bath with a bit of lavender scent (because Sammy wasn’t around to make snooty remarks) while Cas washed his back for a very, very long time to make up for his earlier lapse in good taste in preferring wasp chow to his wet, naked husband. Cas made ample apologies for that, ample and very thorough; in the bath, across the room and all the way under the sheets.

Far from the Appalachians and all manners of bugs, in his own bed and under his warm blanket, his naked husband spooned at his back and holding him tight, Dean finally started to relax and feel warm and not-icky anymore. He yawned, burrowed himself just a little more against Cas’s chest and legs. Cas held him with the arm wrapped under Dean (angel’s limbs never went to sleep however much weight rested on them) absently caressing whatever piece of Dean’s skin he could reach.

Dean blinked, warm and torpid. Sleepily wondering where his husband’s other hand was, and specifically, why it wasn’t on Dean.

“Hmm.” It was barely a murmur. 

Dean realized his eyes had slipped shut. He heaved them open. “Hm?”

“Dean? Are you still awake?” Cas whispered.

“Hm.”

“The scorpion wasp lays its eggs alongside the other wasp’s, and the host takes care of both sets,” Cas whispered into the shell of Dean’s ear. The missing hand made its appearance and settled on Dean’s thigh.

“You communed with the Machine?”

“Yes.”

“...You really thought I couldn’t go to sleep without that information?”

“...Yes?”

Dean curled up a bit further and dropped off to sleep like a stone, with the usual appreciation of the warm (if goofy) body plastered to his. And of the fact that no matter how shitty his life got at times - between the hunting and the bible thumpers and his angel being an occasional idiot - at least he wasn’t a caterpillar babysitting a bunch of baby wasps. As he’d learned a few years ago after his marriage, appreciating the new Eden was all about perspective...


End file.
